


Like a Phoenix

by lunaesomnium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Feral Sky, Gen, Harry Potter Has Sky Flames, M/M, No Arcobaleno Curse (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-01-24 08:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaesomnium/pseuds/lunaesomnium
Summary: Harry dies. When he comes back to life, he's on fire.Literally.





	1. death is only the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hi! Don't worry if you have seen this fic before and under a different username -- that account is archived and this is my new one! I will be posting my old fanfics from ao3 and FF.net on here after some editing. I will probably come back to do some editing of this first chapter, but I wanted to get this up as a PSA about where the hell I went. Sorry if I scared anyone! 
> 
> Shout-out to nekonekonomi, who, even if we aren't still dating, is one of my best friends. Also. I'm sorry for taking so long writing your fics. ;;
> 
> Also, I will add the rest of the pairings as we come across them. Still will be Harry/Reborn centric w/ Harry/Guardians poly pile. Also -- hope you like femdom because I have Plans for Yama Momma. But also, comment on what her flame type should be.

It's in the very last moments before that sickly green light hits him that Harry realizes something.

 _I don't want to die_ , he thinks as the Killing Curse makes its way to him, path unimpeded.  _I don't want to die_ , he repeats it like a mantra and closes his eyes, trying to escape the sight of the spell hurtling towards him.

(It's no use. In the relative darkness of the forest, the green light of the Killing Curse is bright enough that Harry can see it even with his eyes closed.)

It would be so easy to step to the side. To lob a spell at Voldemort or Bellatrix. To  _fight_  as he always has instead of standing here, waiting for his death.

But he can't. He won't.

It doesn't matter what he wants, it doesn't matter that he's scared even as he's resigned to his fate –  _none_  of that matters.

Because for the good of the wizarding world, Harry must die. For the good of the wizarding world, the horcrux that lives within Harry must be destroyed for Voldemort to truly be destroyed.

And so he does.

(And it is.)

* * *

" _I've got to go back, haven't I?"_

" _That is up to you."_

" _I've got a choice?"_

" _Oh yes."_

* * *

When Harry wakes, it's a surprise.

_Dead._

He'd been  _dead_.

He'd seen … Dumbledore? The horcrux inside of his head?

And now he was alive.

Somehow, he felt more like himself than he thinks he's ever felt. Like some fog has been lifted – like he's just now able to see clearly, _think_ clearly for the first time in his life.

A strange sort of energy is thrumming beneath his skin and it takes everything he has not to squirm as he plays down on the ground, then in Hagrid's arms. The tingling sensation only gets worse in the final moments of his battle with Voldemort and he  _swears_  he sees some sort of orange flame wafting off of his body out of his peripherals, but when he turns to look, after Voldemort is dead and gone, there's nothing there.

He pushes the strange instance to the side. While, after seven years Harry is very much desensitized to the wonders of magic, the idea that he had somehow spontaneously caught caught on fire but hadn't felt the heat and hadn't gotten hurt was simply too ridiculous to entertain. So he tries to forget seeing that orange flame. He tries to convince himself that he'd hallucinated it in the wake of coming back to life.

It works, only because Harry doesn't have time to think about it. After the war, Harry attends funeral after funeral after funeral, even for the people he had never met. It was  _his_  fault they had died in the first place, because if he'd defeated Voldemort earlier they'd very likely still be alive, so was only right he'd be there as their families mourned – as  _he_ mourned – to remind him of all of his failings and to give the deceased a proper send off.

So while it's very easy to stay busy and keep himself from thinking of the newest way in which he's an outlier even among wizards and witches …

It's not as easy to ignore the energy that burns beneath his skin, that sets every nerve from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet a light, that won't even give him reprieve for one  _moment_.

In the weeks after the war, the feeling only gets worse. There's an aching loneliness that comes to him late at night, a  _yearning_  that leaves him light–headed and shaking. For what, Harry can never name. The burn – the warmth – it always gets so much worse during these times and as a result, Harry never quite manages to get enough sleep during the night.

With shaking hands, dark under–eye bags, and an unhealthy pallor combined with his already unhealthy weight (having never gained back what he'd lost during what should have been his seventh year of Hogwarts, but decidedly was  _not_ ) – Harry imagines that he looks even worse now that he had during the hunt for Voldemort's horcruxes.

And the dreams when he does manage to doze off,  _those_  are almost the worst part. The warmth is so much more intense as he sleeps and they're so hazy, but there are people in his dreams,  _important_  people and when Harry wakes, he can't remember what they look like or  _why_  they're so important to him.

It reeks of magical shenanigans. Something is going on with Harry's body, with his  _brain_ , and he can't even ask Hermione to help him research because she'd gone off to Australia with Ron to try and find her parents. Harry knows, however, that if he were to send her an owl explaining exactly what's going on she would come back. She would do it because, along with Ron, she's his best friend and she would never not help if it was within her means to do so.

And that's why he can't send her a letter.

What she's doing in Australia is infinitely more important than any strange dream that Harry has or the persistent warmth that bubbles beneath his skin.

He can figure this out on his own. He can. He  _will_ , if only to get a good night's rest.

With that new goal in mind, Harry sets out to craft a research strategy, just as he's seen Hermione do before. He makes a list of all the possible reasons for his ailment and another lists on where he can gather books to do his research. He goes to bed pleased – at least until the ache starts back up once more, the yearning for something that Harry couldn't name, not even if he wanted to.

With his anger and lack of sleep feeding into his somewhat impulsive nature, Harry decides, wrapped in three blankets and wearing his snitch–patterned pajamas and a rather fearsome scowl, that instead of sitting in bed and waiting for this feeling to pass …

Instead of another wistful, unfulfilling dream where he wakes known he's missing something or even several somethings …

Instead of doing  _that_  –

He's going to go where this  _feeling_  is telling him to go and follow the longing wherever it takes him.


	2. Wandering Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ack!! sorry for the long wait!! i think im going to try and upload all my old fics this weekend and start working on new chapters soon! i already have plans for how i want the fourth chapter of this to go >:3c

By the time Harry realizes that he'd stomped out of his house clothed only in his pajamas and nothing else – not even shoes – he's so far from Number 12 Grimmauld Place that he can barely see it. He shoots down the idea of retreating home to his bed after only a moment. The strange energy beneath his skin isn't as bad now that he's left his house and it was a waste to go back to hiding from it. The burning had only gotten worse the more he'd been in denial.

Still, it would be nice to have remembered shoes … maybe he could just –

No. Going back to Number 12 would take too long and walking around London in the wee hours of the morning was _hardly_ the most dangerous thing Harry's ever done.

Even if, Harry grimaces as he takes another step and feels the rough asphalt grate against the tender arch of his foot, it could certainly compete with the most  _uncomfortable_ thing Harry's ever done.

It was too late to go back now, however.

All Harry could do now was move forward.

* * *

Something strange happens to Harry between him resolving to try and ferret out what could help combat the inferno beneath his skin and him journeying into the city proper. He gets lightheaded and dizzy and he burns so much hotter than he had before, it feels almost like a fever. He stumbles too, and almost trips and falls. He catches himself before he can collapse, but gets a cut on his hand for his trouble when it catches on the side of the building.

He rights himself slowly, head pounding, squeezing his eyes shut against the disorienting feeling. When he opens them –

Everything blurs behind a haze of orange.

* * *

Firefold Community Clinic is the second best hospital specializing in the research and treatment of those with flames or otherwise 'supernatural' abilities. It's facilities are quite nice and there's not much of a noticeable difference between the technology used here, in London, and the technology that's used back home. Unsurprisingly, Italy houses specialists that understand flames in a manner that would likely shock those at Firefold. Shamal could've done his residency there, in any number of hospitals staffed entirely by those in the mafia –

He'd wanted to spread his wings a little bit. Make some new contacts. Et cetera, et cetera.

(Okay, and maybe that's true, but Shamal had been all set to work at the  _best_  hospital specializing in the research and treatment of flames – but he'd slept with the daughter of one of the board members and after the fifth, albeit somewhat half–assed, assassination attempt, he'd figured leaving Italy for a while may be for the best.)

And even as a new transfer to Firefold, he's begun the process of ingratiating himself to those that would be future contacts. Unfortunately, this process involves taking shifts that no one else wants, including night shifts.

There is only one positive to the absolute destruction of sleep schedule.

No one cares how long the breaks he takes are. Which is why he's taking his time now, leisurely smoking his second cigarette, watching the smoke unfurl from his lips and dissipate into early morning sky. After he's finished, he checks his watch for the time – grimaces when he notices twenty minutes have passed because while no one may care how long he loiters outside smoking, twenty minutes is a bit excessive.

Oh well. He shrugs off the momentary (and quite frankly,  _uncharacteristic_ ) pang of guilt and departs from the alley he'd chosen today to smoke in.

It takes only a minute to walk from the alley to the entrance of Firefold, so he doesn't bother hurrying, hands in his pockets, eyes to the sky.

Maybe that's why he isn't able to avoid bumping into someone as he steps back onto the sidewalk (because for all his prowess as a player in the mafia, he's not one of those paranoid bastards that practices hyper–vigilance). It's only his reflexes that prevent the both of them from falling and to steady both himself and the clumsy bastard who'd bumped into him, his hands end up on the shoulders of the other person and him taking a half a step back to support them both. When he lets go and the other person pitches forward rather righting themselves, clinical worry pushes aside his irritation and he briefly scans the body in front of him for any obvious reasons that would cause unresponsiveness.

Shorter than Shamal and probably younger too, pale, underweight, shaking, barefoot. The hem of his pajama shirt was smeared red with what was most likely blood. How strange.

But also not terribly helpful in narrowing down the cause of the problem (or  _problems_ ) plaguing the other man. Boy? Eh.  _Boy_.

Something is pushing him to be closer to the boy in front of him and with a shrug, he complies, steadying them both as he does so.

"Anyone home?" He asks it without any expectation of a reply. When he's given nothing steady breathing in response, Shamal rolls his eyes and slides one of his hands from the boy's upper arm to his chin, in an effort to tilt the boy's face up so Shamal can determine if his pupils are dilated or not.

But when his hand brushes the soft skin of the younger man's neck, something deep within Shamal snaps to awareness, like a dog perking up at the sight of its master.

Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.  _HOLY FU_  –

It's a – holy fuck. It's a  _fucking_ Sky. There's a fucking Sky in his arms right now – holy fucking –

The last thing Shamal thinks before his vision blackens at the edges and his knees buckle – pulling both himself and the Sky to the ground, is an unintelligible string of curse words.


	3. Feral Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, shamal's not really in the closet in this fic and there will not be ANY homophobia in this fic either, despite how unrealistic that may be. i deal with that enough irl, im here to escape that lol. anyway, he's not in the closet, he's just in massive amounts of denial and overcompensates his attraction to women to make up for that. that's how i interpret him anyway

Shamal wakes in bits and pieces.

It's a luxury he's not usually afforded. Most often, he snaps to awareness - asleep one moment and awake the next. He's never,  _ever_  groggy. That's been beaten out of him a long time ago.

When he comes to, he's on his side with someone in his arms. For a moment, still sleep-stupid, he thinks it's a woman he's brought home - but the bed is  _far_  too comfortable to be his own. He still recognizes the feel of it though, because he's spent some time at work doing some  _quality_  checks on the beds in the clinic.

The realization of where he is only serves to make him more confused. His tired, not-quite-awake, brain can't parse out the logic of the situation so like an idiot - he opens his eyes.

Only to immediately close them again.

 _Squeezes_  them shut because now he's just been reminded of exactly why he's been placed in a clinic bed.

He'd met a Sky outside the clinic. He'd  _touched_  a Sky outside the clinic and -

Shamal was a Guardian now.

God, that sounded surreal. But it was  _true_. He'd felt the Sky's flames reach out to him and his own reach out in return, like the greedy little bastards they were.

For someone who vowed never to be tied down to a Sky, the process wasn't as terrifying as he thought it would be. He'd always figured it was some sort of mind control on the part of the Sky's flames that made the Guardian and the Sky feel codependent on one another … but it wasn't like that at all.

It felt like he'd found some part of himself he hadn't even known he was missing. He felt  _whole_. At peace now, when he hadn't even known he was distressed.

It was … kind of nice.

But it was still a shock. And one Shamal had to adjust to.  _Alone_.

When he makes to let go of his Sky, something inside of him begins whining. He rationalizes it as some stupid animal part of himself that can't bare to be apart from its Sky. At the movement, the Sky's eyes snap open and when they do, Shamal freezes completely.

His Sky's eyes are a burning orange. The color of his flames.

_Fuck._

His Sky is feral.

No one really knows how or why it happens, but sometimes if a Sky represses their nature - or they're  _forced_  to repress their nature … when they finally have access to their flames again, it overwhelms them. They have their moments of lucidity, but for the most part feral Skies run on instinct until they find all of their guardians … or they burn out.

Feral Skies need a delicate touch. One that Shamal doesn't have. So he freezes and tries to convince himself it's because he doesn't want to provoke an instinct-driven Sky.

He's always been  _so_  good at lying to himself, but it doesn't quite work this time. The worry is nearly overwhelming, the way it hits him. Shamal doesn't think he's ever felt so much for another person, but then again, he's never had a Sky before.

His instincts push him to press the button located on the side of the bed to call for assistance, but when he  _tries_ , his Sky stops him with a gentle touch to his shoulder that turns into Shamal being rolled onto his back.

What started with the simple innocent gesture of Shamal attempting to get help for his Sky, ends with said Sky sitting on his stomach, heavy and warm. He looms over Shamal like this, eyes still very orange and worryingly silent.

Until his Sky leans forward to clumsily grasp at Shamal's face to say " _mine,_ " so matter-of-factly, like he didn't know the word had rocked Shamal's entire world.

Then he passes out, on top of Shamal - their chests touching and his head buried in the crook of Shamal's neck.

And Shamal has to revisit the part of his sexuality he's always repressed and kept under lock and key.

* * *

In the end, Shamal doesn't revisit anything.

Everything that was under lock and key, remains under lock and key.

He's had enough life-changing events for one day. Whatever the hell had happened between him and his Sky -

Well. He can wait to sort all that out for a few days. Or months.

Or years.

* * *

Being cradled in his Sky's arms is … surprisingly nice. His Sky is leaking flames like a faucet, which no matter how good it feels, is a reminder that he's bonded to a  _feral_  Sky. A Sky who has no control over their flame output and who will  _die_  if Shamal doesn't somehow find a way to fix this.

And if his Sky dies … while Shamal being newly bonded -

It'd be a fate worse than death. And just the fucking  _thought_ of his Sky dying has his heart going cold in his chest and his flames trying to seek out and destroy any possible danger to his Sky.

Which - he can't do while the boy is laying on top of him. The last time he'd tried to move (albeit somewhat halfheartedly), it'd ended with his Sky ensuring that he wouldn't be able to move so easily again. But Shamal was an expert at the whole "love 'em and leave 'em" thing, and even if he technically didn't  _want_ to leave his Sky, it meant that now - with his head clear - he could think of a million and one ways to leave the room without disturbing the boy sleeping on top of him.

The easiest method was to squeeze out from under his Sky and replace his body with a pillow saturated with his flames. So that's what he did.

(And if he spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the sight his Sky made clutching a Mist-saturated pillow …

Well.

That was no one's business but his own.)

* * *

Shamal wasn't sure what he expected when he snuck out of his hospital room, but it sure as hell wasn't the entire third shift Firefold staff waiting for him as he quietly shut the door behind him.

"Uh," he says quite eloquently, because this is just a  _little_  too horror movie for him even if most of the staff before him were smiling.

"Congrats, man!" Derek, one of the male nurses, breaks the silence with a cheer. Which is a slight misnomer since the staff of Firefold was nothing if not professional and with their patients - and his Sky - resting at the early hour, they couldn't be loud. But for a lone wolf like Shamal, even Derek's whisper-shout, was too much.

"Ah," Derek and the others must have heard about Shamal bonding to a Sky. In such a small clinic like Firefold, the news must have spread about as soon as whoever had found Shamal and brought him and his Sky inside to a room. "Thanks."

"Thanks?" Derek laughs, louder than he probably should have and the two nurses on either side of him laugh as well. Shamal had nothing against the man, but to be that cheery at ass o'clock in the morning should have been some sort of crime. "You hit the lottery! Margaret and Alex found you two in the alley and they said your Sky's flames were strong!"

Shamal doesn't say thing in reply. He feels twitchy and like his skin doesn't quite fit right and he'd  _really_  just like to sit down and  _think_  for five minutes about what he's going to do now that he's a Guardian and his Sky is fucking  _feral_  but he can't - not with the entire peanut gallery crowded around him.

The silence is awkward but the other five nurses don't disperse. He recognizes only three of them by name - Derek, annoying Sun with yellow scrubs who couldn't ever fucking shut up, Margaret, a Mist with the unfortunate grandmother name even if she was pretty sexy, and Alex, Margaret's Cloud girlfriend. The other two nurses were basically Derek's lackeys, always following him around and barely worth remembering what kinds of flames they had (Lightning and Rain).

"So," Derek says, because the guy can't take a fucking hint. "When are you going to introduce us to your Sky, huh?" Shamal, because he's a fucking kind guy, ignores Derek's two lackeys when they echo his question, pressing when Shamal would let them meet his Sky. "I think," Derek continues, same fake grin plastered on his face as it always was, "that with the five of us, if we tried really hard, your Sky could almost have a full set of Guardians before noon!"

It's a joke.

Shamal  _knows_  it's a joke. But the thing is - it's not funny.

Not funny to insinuate that Shamal could or would force his Sky's bonding, not funny to press and press and fucking press to see a Sky in their critical stages of bonding, not fucking funny at all.

"Sure," Shamal says, forgoing any attempt to not seem like the predator - the  _Hitman_  - he was, eyes dark, loose limbed, and lazy mirthless smile on his face. "I'll set it up as soon as possible. Ah … but my Sky's feral though, so - if he doesn't like what he sees …"

Shamal lets the words trail off like a threat, because they  _are_. Forcing bonds on cognizant Skies ended in at least  _one_ person someone being maimed, but forcing bonds on feral Skies?

That ended in bloodbaths.

From the rapid paling of Derek's face, it seemed he'd gotten Shamal's meaning quite clear. "I have a patient to check on," he says, as quiet as he's ever said anything.

Shamal says nothing in reply but  _magnanimously_  lets the Sun leave. His two lackeys quickly follow behind him.

"What an idiot," Margaret says, watching as Derek scurries down the hall and into - if Shamal remembers room assignments correctly - an empty room. Behind her, Alex snickers quietly but says nothing.

"Yeah?" Shamal asks, suddenly very tired. "And why were you two waiting for me to come out of the room, then?"

"And miss you scare the shit out of Derek?" Margaret buffs her nails on her indigo scrubs and smirks. "No way in hell."

Despite himself, Shamal snorts. It's more of an exhale than anything and exhausted, Shamal pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Hey," Margaret says, much softer and gentler than Shamal thinks he's ever heard her. "Is it true? That your Sky is feral?"

"Yeah," Shamal says, feeling the weight of it all hit him at once. "Yeah, I just need to -" He pats the pocks of his own indigo scrubs, looking for his phone because he had to call some people because he has a  _feral_  Sky and he doesn't know what to do, but frowns he he doesn't find it.

"Looking for this?" Alex asks - and it's so rare to hear her speak that Shamal  _immediately_  looks up, to see her holding out Shamal's phone.

"Ah …" He takes his phone from Alex and turns it on with an influx of Mist flames. Mafia technology was always decades ahead outside of the criminal underworld and he's never been unappreciative of that fact until he sees that he has a message from an unknown number, signed with the letter R.

_Fuck._

"It was almost dead when we found you and your Sky, so we charged it for you," Alex continues, but Shamal is still stuck on the unread message on his phone.

"Thanks - thank you." It's a testament to how flustered he is that he stumbles over his words. "I have to take this." He gestures to his phone and doesn't wait for a reply before scurrying off to lock himself in one of the clinic's labs and look at the message in peace.

He slumps into one of the lab's chairs and wishes he could go outside for a smoke to calm his nerves, but he quite literally cannot be a few steps from his Sky so Lamaze breathing in an empty room will have to do.

When he's calmed himself adequately, he turns his phone back on. He waits a few moments before reading the message.

_I need some information. -R_

It's from an unknown number, but there's really only one person in the world who would not only have his number, but open with asking for a favor, and sign with the letter R.

Reborn. The World's Strongest Hitman. A.K.A. not someone you'd want to piss off.

Shamal winces when he looks at the time stamp. Sent over four hours ago. Not a good sign. Not if he wanted to live. Normally, if he'd missed a message from someone he'd make up some lie about what had taken so long to reply, but Reborn had a built-in lie detector, so instead he writes:

_Sorry. I bonded to a Sky and it was overwhelming. We've been passed out for the past few hours. It's why I'm responding so late. What did you need?_

Reborn responds within two minutes. Which is vaguely terrifying, but there's not a lot about the man that isn't.

_You, a Guardian? She must be beautiful to have tied you down. -R_

Shamal carefully doesn't examine why Reborn doesn't want the information he'd needed hours ago. Hopefully, he'd gotten it from someplace else and he hadn't cost the man a job.

So caught up in what Reborn could have possibly needed or what the Hitman's retribution would be since Shamal hadn't gotten it for him, he doesn't notice he'd typed -  _Yeah. He is. -_  until after he'd sent it.

Quickly, hoping to do some damage control, Shamal sends:

_For a guy, anyway._

This time, Reborn doesn't reply in two minutes. Which is also vaguely terrifying. By the time Reborn responds, Shamal's hands are clammy with sweat and he very nearly drops his phone.

When he reads Reborn's message, he almost wishes he had.

_I think I'd like to meet the Sky that managed to ensnare the famed Trident Shamal. -R_

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on social media!! i ramble about fics a lot :3
> 
> tumblr: lunaesomniium   
> twitter: lunaesomnium


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